


little vice

by orphan_account



Series: aimless writing drabbles [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Non-Sexual Age Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:50:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lafayette tries and fails to wait in silence while his general works. His general does not mind.





	1. little vice

Lafayette sat on the floor, legs crossed over each other. His mass of messy curls spilled from atop his head, loosely and messily bound into a bun by one of his generals royalty blue ribbons. The ribbon was worn and fraying at its ends, but still did a considerable job of pinning the young frenchmans wily locs from blocking the view of his starry eyes. ’Til the thing fell to pieces, it wasn't likely the Marquis would easily part with it. He prized the first gift his beloved general had bestowed upon him. To give it up would be most treasonous in his mind. He bit his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth for an idle moment before casting his gaze to where Washington was perched on the couch. The older man was using his thigh as a firm surface to scribble on his paper, working, but glanced up every so often to check on his boy. Feeling the youngers eyes trained on him, he looked up. Lafayette stilled, lip still caught between his teeth, hand clutching a wooden block to the floor. Washington smiled warmly. Immediately, his beloveds quiet disposition brightened up. Lafayette forgot within the second that he'd meant to stay quiet while George worked, and — _still_ biting, though much less wearily — he grinned.

“Papa,” Lafayette started, breaking the silence and making a faint amused smile breach George's own lips.

“Yes? What's on your mind, little soldier mine?” Was his fond reply. Lafayette frowned softly, big, soft brown eyes mixed with momentary confusion. This, Washington understood immediately. There were times that his boy became too young to use English. It wasn't his first language after all. Of course, a part of his brain still knew it and could handle it fine, but that was not the part of his brain that George or Lafayette wanted to engage. Not then. Mentally berating himself, Washington went in to correct his mistake before the curve of Lafayette's brows could deepen any further; more importantly, before he could accidentally pull himself out of littlespace in his search for a language not yet learned to his young mind. In French, the General repeated:

“I apologize, Lafayette; that was my mistake. Forgive an old man his forgetfulness. What is it that you wanted to tell me?”

Now that Lafayette could understand. The big, wordy, sentences were no large struggle, even to his young state of mind. He was smarter than others gave him credit for. He was no Alexander, writing and _almost fluently trilingual_ even as a child (though little Alex did speak so rarely), but he was smart, and he knew his own language. His smile returned. In his native tongue, he replied:

“What a’ you doin’?” He asked, words clipped. George's little smile was unable to remain suppressed at the boundless curiosity of his boy. Big or little, he had question after question. When he got together with Hamilton (or Alex, even,), the two of them were dynamic. One asking questions, the other giving answers. They often made believed themselves as reporters, which George found hilariously fitting.

“Paperwork,” He said, underlined with a soft and subtle laugh. “I hope for both our sakes that you find a more entertaining job than President.”

Lafayette's eyes blew up with awe, and swiftly, his block was forgotten. He clambered onto his knees, leaning forward excitedly on his hands as a babble of child-like French flowed from him almost too quickly for George to understand. “Papa, I will help you! You will be the president and I am your helper!”

George's eyebrow quirked up in amusement and he sat the papers to the side of him, just in time to make room for the adult four-or-five year old climbing up into his lap.

How could he say no to such expectant eyes, ever? No wonder Martha called him the pushover parent. The comparison wasn't really fair — _she_ had biological children, who had been children always for their entire childhoods. He only had his boys, who were children only every so often. Could you blame an old man for doting on his children while he could?

“You’d like to be my vice president?” He asked. Lafayette nodded excitedly, bouncing on his knee in anticipation of an approving answer. George took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Very well. I'm sure you'll make a better partner than Mr. Adams in any case. Do promise me though, that you won't flee to France and into the arms of Madame Lafayette so often.”

George's shade was lost amidst Lafayette's crushing wave of _“merci, merci papa!”_. He didn't mind.


	2. ...and so angelic clouds frothed forward with many tears, and he cried too for their betrayed hosanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette's imprisonment ft. Adrienne.

The room was dark — no, the cell. The cell was dark, and it was small. Cold water _drip, drip, dropped_ from the dirty dirt ceiling, splattering without any rhyme or reason onto the concrete floor. Lafayette sat on the floor of this awful place, this awful cell; knees drawn up to his chest and head in his hands. His shoulders trembled gently, but not so gently as his shaky bottom lip. He knew he'd been sitting there in that corner for a long time because his knees and the lower portion of his legs ached and buzzed in protest. Legs that were battled into strength and dexterity now shook alongside the shaken boy they were meant to carry. Time had lost much of its meaning, as had sound — or, rather, the small cluster of sounds that had been needling at Lafayette for the whole of his imprisonment.

How long had he been here now? Bleary eyes lifted up to re-re-re-reread the collection of thin pale scratches on the rough wall to his left. As of that day, there were seventeen days marked off.

Seventeen days of _drip, drip, drop_.

Seventeen days of the wind howling outside, relentless in it's crushing of everything but the sound of his own crying, screaming and cussing.

His throat was raw now. No more screaming, no more words that would make his beloved Washington look down on him with frowns of disapproval. No more words at all, now. None at all, besides the ones that tumbled about in his whirling skull.

 

> _By the President of the United States of America_
> 
> _A Proclamation_
> 
> _Whereas it appears that a state of war exists between Austria, Prussia, Sardinia, Great Britain, and the United Netherlands of the one part and France on the other, and the duty and interest of the United States require that they should with sincerity and good faith adopt and pursue a conduct friendly and impartial toward the belligerent powers: I have therefore thought fit by these presents to declare the disposition of the United States to observe the conduct aforesaid toward those powers respectively, and to exhort and warn the citizens of the United States carefully to avoid all acts and proceedings whatsoever which may in any manner tend to contravene such disposition._
> 
> _And I do hereby also make known that whosoever of the citizens of the United States shall render himself liable to punishment or forfeiture under the law of nations by committing, aiding, or abetting hostilities against any of the said powers, or by carrying to any of them those articles which are deemed contraband by the modern usage of nations, will not receive the protection of the United States against such punishment or forfeiture; and further, that I have given instructions to those officers to whom it belongs to cause prosecutions to be instituted against all persons who shall, within the cognizance of the courts of the United States, violate the law of nations with respect to the powers at war, or any of them._
> 
> _In testimony whereof I have caused the seal of the United States of America to be affixed to these presents, and signed the same with my hand. Done at the city of Philadelphia, the 22d day of April, 1793, and of the Independence of the United States of America the seventeenth._
> 
> _By the President_.

 

By the President. George. Echoes of delighted _‘papa, papa!’_ and _‘Monsieur! Mon général!’_ rattled wantingly beneath the harsh ocean of white noise in his head. Did he know that his dear boy was imprisoned? A _war criminal_? Did he, had he thought of him when signing this proclamation? A thickness filled Lafayette's throat as he thought about this for the millionth time. America was not coming to France's aid. George would not be riding in on any idealistic white horse to sweep him home.

The water continued to drip. His chest burned for home. A hard splash of several icy tears of rain assaulted his shoulder, making him jump and yelp with sharp surprise. He could not see, eyes unadjusted to the dark, but the darkly colorful spin of the room was not so disorienting that he didn't feel the featherlight touch of a gentle handle on his shoulder. The senses, though, they scrambled and cried out in fear. Featherlight and gentle was retranslated into hard and harsh. Violent, tugging, pushing forward into dark rooms and jail cells with very few words but breath filled with much blood and toxic laughter. 

“No!” He choked on a sob, and the hand quickly snapped away. Lafayette felt himself drowning in the damp, thin air. A crying, ragged breath was pushed forcefully into his lungs, only to shake his bones when it rebounded as a second, quieter cry. Tears ran streams from his eyes and pooled at his chin. A panicked, soft voice sung out to him from what sounded like very far away. The words, the voice, were French and familiar as returning home after far too long. 

“You were quiet for so long,” she murmured like an angel. 

_‘my angel’_ , George had called him. His chest heaved. 

“It is alright to cry now,” she sat at his side, willingly allowing mud to seep into her fancy dress cloth. Adrienne's hand came to perch at his shoulder again, light as air, light as her low, songbird voice. She eased her way onto the rocky shores of Lafayette's shaken state of mind like gentle waves of honey. He fell against her, head dropping into her bosom like a child to their mother. He twisted until he was clambered up onto his knees, arms thrown tight around his wife. Tears flowed freely now, eased up from low in his chest by her gentle hand over his back. Adrienne held him close until his shaking soothed to just a constant quiver. She sang to him as sweetly as a springtime breeze thawing frozen rivers and ice trapped flowers. Five or six minutes carried past before her voice was but a whisper and he was nearing sleep in her embrace. The world which had been so big felt so pinhole small now. Littleness threatened to creep up on the man. He so wanted to completely crumble to that relaxing state — but Chavanaic was so far away. New York was so far away. Where, at all, was his Papa to be found? No longer just a tent, or letter, or a thought away. His bones felt heavy. He ached until he fell asleep, and Adrienne did not move him from her hold.

**Author's Note:**

> plx leave requests


End file.
